#antoshflash7

The epiphany in the shower was to stop holding onto Sarah’s American clothes. They are American clothes because they were purchased in America and depict patriotism with vigour. But I shouldn’t claim they are American clothes because they were made by people or children in a country that had been bombed by America at some point. The people or children are in conditions in which they make clothes for people who are slow-destroying their home. I don’t know why I differentiate children from people. It must have been strange stitching a depiction of a flag you had never seen into the breast space of a blouse, to know the blouse will be partnered with jeans and ruminated over whether they match, by a woman you will never meet and when decided that they do match, that they are then worn to a bar where they meet another body wrapped in non-descript clothes, another blouse paired with jeans, made by hands from another bombed country, to be pulled off, to the point of ripping the left shoulder, a faulty seam, but no complaints because it must be hard to sew un-faulty after five thousand blouses, which is how many you must make, child. I’m sorry. I pulled at her shoulders with my teeth and undid your work. I am assuming you are child. I am assuming you still sew clothes or have Americans taught you to use machines that print clothes, blouses, in perfect shape You are assuming these clothes succeeded in wrapping someone up. Or you are not. I am no longer. I’ve left them, empty, in an outline of a person or a child, on the floor and plead them to run to me, as if we were being bombed. I made calls for help. Sarah’s still not coming back for her American clothes. 

THE FLASHNIFICENTS. In this post to mark National Flash Fiction Day, AntoshFlash explains our noble origins and thanks the man who inspired us all.

Juggernaut's ankles dented the door frame. The entire corner shop sunk with each of his footsteps. His helmet knocked out one of the overhead lights that bled filament all over a passing child who was shouting, "MOM! MOM! LOOK!" whilst swinging some plastic strawberry laces. He walked to straight to the counter. The mother strolled up to Juggernaut. "Excuse me?!" she barked, stabbing at his titanium skull. Juggernaut turned to face her. "How dare you march in here and mutilate my child. Don't you know how lethal light juice is?" She pointed at her son, who was now coughing feathers and speaking Peking. Juggernaut shrugged. "You shoulda taught him not to cross the Juggernaut." "That's not an excuse for your misconduct." "It's the reason." "Uh-" "Look lady, don't you know who I am?" "I do." "Then you'll understand why I do this." Juggernaut picked up the child and flossed his teeth with his body. The mother fainted. When he finished, he spat the bones onto the unconscious woman. "Bitch." He turned to the cashier, who was pale and standing in a cooling pool of urine. Juggernaut smiled with a mouthful of feathers and blood. "Can I get a scratch card and 50g of Golden County please?"

My boot goes through his skull. He'd been hugging the pavement with his teeth for a minute, crying cement words, begging for me to walk away. I wipe his matter off my sole on the grass, leave him to sleep for the rest of the night. The wake up police alarms will come soon enough. "Dad! We're going to be late!" moans Ellie at breakfast. She is burled in a rain mac and boots. I scoop her up with a smile. "We'll be fine, Dad's got traffic removal powers, remember?" She raspberries at me. I drop her off at the gates. Her wellies greet the curb and spring her into school with a bounce. I wave her in, close my door, drive away, smiling until my jaw seizes.

Kowalski swirls the Bourbon in his mouth. It is his prized, stakeout Bourbon, the one his mother got him fourteen years ago. It has aged well. He hasn’t. Kowalski swallows after warming the drink in his cheeks for ten minutes. His teeth feel mouthwash fresh. His partner has bled out in the back of the car. He can wait. Kowalski takes another swig. It is half midnight by the time the crowds depart. The tent deflates as their bodies leave it, drunk on theatrics. A troupe of circus performers emerge. Kowalski eyes the freaks, trying to pinpoint the Bearded Lady. His eyesight is blurred from the Bourbon, the bottle now empty. He has never drunk time away so keen. He spots her as she moves to a smaller tent, probably her changing quarters. He grabs a bag of clothes and leaves the car. The circus entourage do not notice him as he enters the walk in wardrobe. The Bearded Lady is naked, slowly tying her beard into plats, sat at a vanity unit. She notices Kowalski in the mirror and does not face him. “I didn’t think you’d ever visit me at work,” she says, focusing on each strand of hair. “I thought it bothered you too much?” Kowalski claps his hands on his face, sighs and looks in the mirror. “Couldn’t you dress up for a moment?” “Why? You not comfortable seeing me naked?” “You look too much like your Mum.” “I can’t help that.” Kowalski laughs short and shakes his head. “What would she think of this?” “She would be happy that I pursued the life I wanted.” She stops platting the beard and turns to Kowalski, who averts his eyes. “I didn’t sacrifice anyone’s life to get here.” “It’s not the kind of job where you need to.” “And yours is?” Kowalski thinks of his dead partner in the car. “Sometimes, people force you to do things for the greater good.” “Do you feel good?” she asks, stepping up from her chair. “I feel drunk, all the time.” The Bearded Lady embraces him, smells his neck. “You shouldn’t knock so much of that stuff back.” He pushes her away, looks her straight in the eyes. “It’s a coping mechanism.” “Why are you here?” “I just wanted to see if my son was happy.” He looks at her breasts. “The implants are convincing. Don’t ever bother coming home, I can’t accept you like these people.” He hands her the bag of clothes. “That’s it?” The words can hardly pass her bearded lips. Kowalski nods and leaves. He speeds home and clips a juggernaut truck on the highway. The car plunges into a trench. Kowalski’s legs are the crumple zone. When he is found, he is too late for a Breathalyzer. The cops speculate about his dead partner, but conclude it was probably a hit job. None of Kowalski’s family attend the funeral. Plot Generator: A dirty cop ruins a circus freak.

"What the hell happened to Quicks?!" screamed Virginia, as she gathered her limp pet stork from the floor of the kitchen. The bird was purring. She entered the lounge to find Mark, her barely conscious boyfriend, slumped amid piles of laundry. "Wake up!" she barked. Mark choked his snore and leapt up.”What? What? What?” “Did you wash Quicks?!” Virginia demanded, thrusting her stork forward, holding it by the neck. “I thought he looked a bit dirty and he has similar dimensions to your scarves. I thought I was doing you a favour!” “He can hardly breath! He’s purring like a cat, for God’s sake.” “Well, I’ll call the vet!” “They won’t know what to do, he’s not a conventional pet.” Quicks squawked sharp, then conked out. “Why do you have him then? You can’t even walk storks!” Virginia gasped. “How dare you. He’s helped me through so much.” Mark palmed his face and breathed out deeply. “I know he helped you through the divorce and the gambling problem and that whole fiasco with your boss and the fraud allegations, but really, he’s just a bird that you wear as a scarf.” Tears in Virginia’s eyes began to pool on her cheeks. “How can you say that. He complements all of my outfits…” The words drowned in the salt drips catching on her lips. Mark moved towards her, placed his hands on shoulders and rubbed them. Virginia settled Quicks down on the sofa. It flopped like it had been shot. Mark kissed Virginia’s cheeks. “I’m sorry. I just made a mistake and I should have hand washed him. Next time, I know what to to do.” A smile broke on her face. “And I’ll be sure to use non-bio detergent and conditioner-“ She reeled back from him. “You didn’t even use fabric softener! His feathers will fall out!” Virginia slapped Mark and dived into a laundry frenzy, tearing up his shirts as he pleaded her to forgive him. Quicks lay comatose, unsure whether to stand again and continue life as a scarf or fly out of the window, into the wild, where unconventional pets belong.

"Freeze!" scream the cops as they burst into the bathroom. "Very funny"' replies Dr Freeze, facing the urinal. "Raise your arms slowly." commands the officer at the front of the rabble, aiming a pistol at the back of Freeze's head. He complies. "No hands." A couple of cops laugh to be hushed straight away. "Where are the diamonds?" Dr Freeze gestures to the side with a nod of his head. There is an over spilling bag of jewels leaking under the urinal. "I didn't want to get them dirty." The cops exchange looks. The officer signals one of them to retrieve the bag. A sweaty corporal inches forward, eyes on the still super-villain. He reaches slowly and snatches the bag. It jingles happy in his safe hands. Dr Freeze does not move. The cop returns to the rabble. "OK. We have the diamonds. Now, step away from the wall." "I can't do that." The cops exchange looks. "Why not?" Dr Freeze sighs. "I'm not finished." Some of the cops stifle giggles. "What do you mean?" asks the officer. "I'm stuck." "You will turn to face us." "I can't!" "Corporal?" "Yes, sir?" comes the shaky reply. "Check him out." The corporal gulps and makes for the doctor, to be stopped by his plea. "Please," whimpers Dr Freeze. "I've given you the diamonds back, I didn't kill anybody, I'm just a guy taking a piss. Can't you just leave me be?" The corporal looks to his commanding officer. "You are wanted for all the other murders and robberies you've committed." "The Bat will get me for those. Please!" The cops exchange looks. The officer nods to the corporal. He inches up to Dr Freeze and begins to pat his body down. The villain begins to cry. "Don't... I was just trying... Sometimes, when a villain is mid-heist, he has to... I..." The corporal moves to check Dr Freeze's front. He clocks his blue cock hanging out, propped up by a stalagmite of yellow, frozen to the plug of the urinal. The corporal gasps, then bursts into hysterics. "It doesn't happen often!" pines Freeze. "Guys, you have to see this!" The cops crowd around the urinal and laugh like a room of jocks whipping a fat boy. "Stop! This is a serious problem! It happens to all ice people!" Tears stream down Freeze's goggle eyes. The officer manages to stifle his howling laughter and claps the villain on the shoulder. "You're all right Freeze. I hope you melt soon, we'll give Batman a call, he'd love to see this. Oh! And if it snaps off, be sure to put it on ice!" The cops pile laughing out of the toilets. Dr Freeze weeps in his frozen urine, wishing he had super bladder control powers.

It was never a question, the hairy hands in the air. They never asked questions, only pointed and gaped their chimpanzee grins until their eyes became yet another wrinkle. Night in, night out, he would stroll up and down, in front of the desks, discussing the relations between religion and the dinosaurs; how velociraptors were a good insurance policy if the world ended and no shining being came down to save you. At least then you could point and laugh at your friend who wasted years being celibate and not enjoying wheat products... His class of monkeys would find this concept hilarious and then hurl objects at him. Carl B. Blanket found his night classes the hardest to deal with. Crocodiles on a Monday morning had a firm grasp on string theory and were coming to terms with the concept of buffet eating tariffs. Egrets, although a little unsure of typewriters, made fine ballet and jazz dancers. His class of cows on a Tuesday afternoon could understand that cheese was made from milk and had all ready started experimenting on how to coagulate it in their stomachs, to produce instant cheese. Blanket went to tell them there were cans for that, but they were generating promising results. But monkeys were far too narrow minded. Religion was so integrated into their thinking; any suggestion that God wasn't the reason for the rain, delicious snacks on trees or why crabs made good safe crackers, provoked a bombardment of paper, clipboards, rubbers and manure, followed by bouts of laughter. His walks home from the Ark were always introspective. He reminisced about the old days, when it was all about money and squandering it. Those were good times, simple times, when it was just a 9-5 automotive system, with the weekends off occasionally. Now, there was the possibility of 18 hour shifts, sporadic night classes due to animal feeding times, all followed by the reproduction quota. 30 hours of intercourse from each male a week, just to replenish the human race. Sometimes, Blanket thought it was far too much to handle, especially the copious amounts of monkey shit he had to wash out of his suits every week. Originally published on Saturday 24th December 2011, this was the first ever piece to appear for the Flashnificents